If only it were possible to locate this fine Irishman,
Draw back time with enviable conversation à deux.
A prolific writer born with such riches of creativity,
His depthful cognisance adds detail to humour.
Murphy and Molloy lived within such construction,
Characters sculpted by twists and turns of phrase.
Maudlin moments absorbed into the environment,
As frequently as his canny sense of witty Irish humour.
He toiled longingly with his God of life and dark death,
Waiting for Godot extolled philosophical considerations.
Beckett lavished attention upon language manipulation,
Swiftly fashioning or embedding many poetic peculiarities.
Expression nestled deeply inside the circumstances he lived,
Woven tightly and held in tensile stitches of laughter or woe.
His novels cling to the mind and refuse to be rested for long,
Engaging wisdom permeates the consciousness of this day.
His retiring Francophile taste buds whetted by later ambience,
An endearing Tailpiece simply notes finality for Watt or Mr Knott.
©Copyright Eileen T O’Neill 10/10/2013
Poets United Prompt: Verse First ~ Writers are Lovers
My love for words of the Irish writer Samuel Beckett….